


The Crown and the Hobbit

by Prentice



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dwarf Courting, Dwarf Culture & Customs, F/M, Gender Roles, Hobbits make good spouses, Jealousy, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Overprotective Dwarves, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Slow Burn, Slow To Update, The Fell Winter Changed Everything, Undecided Relationship(s), fem!Bilbo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-25 09:19:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2616539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prentice/pseuds/Prentice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the blue and silver tartan that finally did it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'll say upfront that I'm not sure where I'm going with this. It's just something I started as a challenge and, well, we'll see where it ends up. On the subject of pairings, I haven't decided what they'll be yet hence my covering my bases up in the tags (the only thing I do know is that Bilbo will end up with one or several of the Durins). Feel free to let me know which you prefer as this fic goes along. 
> 
> Fair warning that I've altered and/or played fast and loose with cultural norms and ideas in this particular fic. Hobbits are still rather secretive but they're not quite as secluded and have become a more open to other races in order to thrive. They've also begun their version of arranged marriages, by once a year sending eligible hobbits out into the world for "review" by other races in order to secure alliances. Most hobbits don't get picked and/or manage to find their own love within the Shire but the few who don't - well, you'll see.

It was the blue and silver tartan that finally did it.

Body trembling with barely suppressed anger, Bilbo Baggins gathered up the carefully packaged fabric and threw it to the ground, something visceral and ugly coiling in her gut when it puddled in a messy beautiful heap near her hearthrug. It clashed horribly – the blue and silver nearly fluorescent in their vibrancy, especially against her poor rug, which was a worn muddy green she remembered from throughout most of her childhood. For a moment, a part of her – a petty, ugly part she wasn’t very proud of even in this moment – wanted to stomp all over it, to rumple and crease the fabric beyond recognition.

She wouldn’t do it, though. No matter how terribly angry she was. It wouldn’t make her feel any better – if anything, it’d only make her feel worse once her anger had cooled and she realized how utterly foolish she’d been for doing it – and it wouldn’t change anything.

Even if she gave into temptation and threw it in the fire, watched it burn and smolder until it was nothing more than ash, nothing would be different. She would simply be given another – or worse, given nothing at all – and be forced to endure the embarrassment of having to explain why she needed it. No one, not even her kindly cousin Rosemary, who had watched her worriedly from across the room, her own folded tartan in hand, as Bilbo had received her own bundle of fabric, would believe that it had simply caught fire by accident.

Shoulders slumping, Bilbo sighed, hands lifting to scrub irritably at her curls. They were forever getting in her eyes these days. Shorter than they’d been only a week ago, she was still getting used to the lack of weight and the way she couldn’t seem to tame them.

Why she had ever allowed Lobelia’s snotty opinions about her appearance – or lack thereof – bother her she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if she wanted to impress anybody. In fact, if anything, she wanted to do the opposite, if only to get out of this – this – ridiculous situation!

“Oh, bother and botheration!” She moaned, wishing, not for the first time that she had been born a boy instead of a girl. At least then, she would have more of a say in her future, even if it were only to have the ability to say ‘no’ in just this one thing. Though, really, with the way that things were going for her lately, she likely wouldn’t have been able to say ‘no’ then either.

Hands dropping to her sides, Bilbo shuffled her feet, glaring balefully at the still beautifully heaped fabric on her floor – she still _really_ wanted to stomp on it – before squaring her shoulders and marching towards the kitchen. There was only one thing this situation called for – a crispy blueberry crumble – and she was going to make it. Ilúvatar help anyone who tried to stop her.

# *

It was no secret in the Shire that the Fell Winter had changed everything. No one liked to speak of it, of course. It was a painful topic, one that often brought forth foul memories in those who’d live through it. Even so, every Hobbit, young and old alike, knew that _that_ winter had changed everything for them. They, like their ancestors before them, could not be the same hobbits they once were. They were fundamentally changed and so too were their lives. It was not a terrible hardship, this change. Hobbits were a remarkably resilient race and though time and historians often forgot this fact, they were also astoundingly adaptable. This was, in no small part, due to their Wandering Days, when their ancestors had pushed steadily westward in search of new homes, new prospects, and better lives.

Adaptability aside, however, change as a whole was not entirely without its problems. There was, after all, an inherent shift in proprieties when change took place. An adjustment, of sorts, that would often settle into place before anyone was settled into _it_.

One such change had happened soon after the end of that horrible winter.

Though hardy creatures, the Hobbits of the Shire were not like their ancestors of old, who had once the ability and skill to defend themselves from the outside world. Indeed, the Hobbits of the Shire were not fighters, at least not in the sense that most people meant the word, and had, during that terrible winter, suffered for it. They had no one to blame, of course; life was not so very dangerous in the Shire to need trained warriors in their midst and though there were some odd-few who enjoyed tales of sword fights and battles of kingdoms old, very few actually had a marked interest in learning how to fight.

The worst most young hobbits had to face was a stern talking-to by their mother or father and being sent to bed without dessert. As for the adult hobbits, the most trouble that could be found was usually a lack of pipe weed, a missed meal, or an unpleasant relation stopping in unexpectedly for tea. Hardly enough to merit a training session of any kind, much less one that involved weapons.

All the same, it was due to this very fact that a change happened. It was, some would say in years to come, a wise one, though there were plenty to say the opposite as well. It was a simple change, ingenious really, and went as followed: any and all unmarried hobbits of appropriate age and standing would be considered eligible for courtship every following season of their majority and be sent for review should another race – be they Man, Dwarf, or Elf – take an interest.

Again, it was a simple change, but one that had a profound effect, on not only hobbits but also other races as well. Dwarves and Men especially flourished under this new adjustment; fore it was widely known that dwarf-women were few and had an especially hard time carrying children to term, while Men had remarkably short life-spans and would often seek a Hobbit-spouse in order to lengthen the lives of their children and thus extend their ability to rule whatever lands they claimed.

It was, of course, not a perfect solution. Though tales were few, there were some unhappy cases. Poorly made matches or hastily made decisions. Loveless marriages that withered and died short and poignant deaths before they’d even truly begun.

Still, it was a chance – a change. One that Hobbits had badly needed after the horrors of the Fell Winter. No one could deny that, not even if they wanted to, and it was generally accepted that all Hobbits would abide by it.

Unfortunately, at least for the Thain of the Shire, no one had bothered to mention that to Bilbo Baggins.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's likely obvious but I think I should state that in this fic Smaug never happened, though the pilgrimage to the Blue Mountains still happened for reasons that'll come to light later. Due to this, Thorin is very much still the King Under the Mountain and Erebor never fell in the way it did in the books. 
> 
> Also, as I mentioned before, please let me know if you have a pairing choice. Similarly, if you see something that just doesn't work, let me know. I can't promise to change it - sorry, but I'm not changing Bilbo's name, regardless of whether it's perceived to be "masculine" or not - but I'll definitely consider it. 
> 
> Many thanks for the kudos and opinions! :)

It was widely known among hobbit-folk that being Thain of the Shire was not necessarily an enviable job. Certainly, it was a respectable one and there were certain perks, as the saying went, to being one of the most well-regarded hobbits within the Shire but, more often than not, the job itself was headache-inducing. At least, it was for Fortinbras Took II, who had, by virtue of his birth, been preparing for this role since somewhere in his late tweens.

This was not to say he _was_ prepared when the role finally did fall to him. In fact, it was rather the opposite, what with his poor father fit as a fiddle one day and then dropping down dead the next. Not entirely unexpected at his advanced age but, well, it had still been something of a shock and Fortinbras, for all that he was married and had a small lad of his own, had never really thought about what it would be like when his father had finally gone to his final rest

Overwhelming was probably a good word for it. At least, it would have been had Fortinbras had the time to think about it, which he hadn’t. Hobbits were, no matter what anyone said, surprisingly demanding creatures who – in spite of or, perhaps, because of – their bucolic lifestyle often needed to be tended.

Rather like a garden that was forever threatening to overgrow, Fortinbras had learned quickly to weld his shears with steady hands and intercede when and where he needed to, mediating disputes between neighbors, arguments between families, and even the odd quarrel between tweens. He was not a minder or a meddler – no matter what his dear Lalia felt, his position was not one that meant he was entitled to run every aspect of other hobbits’ lives – but he was a steady hand. One that tended to his people as a gardener might tend to their tomatoes: with growing skill and experience.

That, of course, did not mean that all went well.

Hand lifting to tug wearily at his earlobe, Fortinbras stared with growing dread at the crispy blueberry crumble currently being served out in front of him, large stomach grumbling. It smelled divine, especially since he’d been forced to miss his afternoon tea in order to respond to the various messages he’d received via raven just that morning, and had had nothing but buttered toast since Luncheon. Needless to say, he was starving and a large part of him, governed almost entirely by his stomach, couldn’t wait to dig into the oversized piece of crumble that was even now being dolloped with homemade whipped cream and garnished with a fistful of fresh plump blueberries.

It was the other parts of him, small though they were now in the face of his growing hunger, that were giving him problems. Mainly about having a blueberry crumble set down in front of him. He knew what that meant, especially when said blueberry crumble was from one Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End in Hobbiton.

Giving his ear one final tug, Fortinbras sighed, shoulders slumping in weary defeat as his wife not so subtly thumped his plate down in front of him, her face tellingly devoid of emotion. That, he knew, was never a good sign. “Just how angry was she, my button?”

Eyebrows rising, Lalia Took née Clayhanger, pursed her lips, and stared pointedly at the large piece of crumble she’d just set in front of her husband. “Do you really have to ask, Forty?”

Sighing again, Fortinbras shifted, stomach rumbling as he picked up his spoon and scooped up a large piece of the dessert. It tasted just as good as it smelled, the blueberries inside still plump and sweet-smelling, bursting over his tongue in a rush of tart sweetness. Even the streusel topping itself was delicious; crispy in all the right places and flavored with what he could only assume was a hint of Hobbiton’s famous apple cider.

Chewing thoughtfully, Fortinbras frowned, looking towards his wife as he took another spoonful, this one heaped high with crumble and cream. “Oh, she was furious. Absolutely furious.”

Inclining her head, Lalia turned and bustled towards the hearth, quickly and carefully pulling the now steaming kettle from the fire and setting it upon the table. In no time at all, they were both drinking tea, a strong, nearly bitter, brew his wife tended to favor over all others. Just the taste of it made something in him ease, a weary horrible ache he hadn’t quite been able to get rid of since the Gathering dulling to a tolerable prickle.

“She’s still furious, you know,” Lalia said in the intervening silence, spoon clinking softly against her own plate. Her piece of crumble was no less generous than his own had been and he wondered vaguely if there would be any left by dinner – it really was delicious, in a pointedly vindictive way – but no, no he had other things to worry about right now. “You should have told her.”

Shoulders drooping even further, Fortinbras shook his head, spoon rattling as he dropped it onto his plate. “It wouldn’t have helped, my button. If anything, it would have made things worse. She might not have even come to the Gathering had I told her.”

“Can you blame her?” Lalia asked, tone tart. “That girl has gone through nothing but bad tidings these past few years and she’s only just into her majority. To know what that damnable Wizard has heaped upon her shoulders,” she shook her head. “It isn’t right, Forty. I have no idea what Belladonna and Bungo were thinking when they allowed that old fool into their child’s life.”

“I imagine they were thinking of Bilbo’s future happiness,” Fortinbras supplied, mind turning towards their own child. Ferumbras was still nothing more than a lad in his eyes, several years away from his own majority and thoroughly under the watchful gaze of his hawkeyed wife. He couldn’t begin to imagine being faced with the kind of choice Belladonna and Bungo had been with their child when it came to his own.

Even so, he couldn’t fault them. Not really. They had done what they thought was right and what more could any parent do for their child?

“I still think you should have told her,” Lalia pointed out stubbornly, rising from her seat to begin clearing away the dishes. “She missed the Gathering last year because she was still deeply in mourning. It isn’t fair just to throw her to the wolves without some kind of warning.”

“And what should I have said? ‘I’m sorry, my girl, but it doesn’t matter if you want this or not, you’re already as good as married?’ That would have gone over well.” Shaking his head, Fortinbras rose from his seat, patting the front of his waistcoat until he was able to find the small wooden matchbox he carried with him everywhere. It had been a gift from his father on the old codger’s last birthday; a small memento he could remember him by whenever he needed.

“If it makes you feel any better, were it up to me, I would have told Bilbo about this long ago. Well before Belladonna’s death, even, so that if she had any questions they could have been answered. It wasn’t up to me, though – it still isn’t. It was up to Belladonna and now Gandalf and neither of them wanted her to know anything about this – arrangement.”

Lalia snorted. “Why am I not surprised?”

Sighing, Fortinbras curled his fingers around his matchbox, thumb smoothing over its worn edges. “I may well be the Thain of the Shire, my button, but there are some things even I cannot change. Now,” he said, tone turning brisk. “I’ll be out in the garden having a bit of a smoke. Let me know if any more of those blasted birds come – the last one forgot half of its message while waiting for me and I still don’t quite know what it wanted.”

Nodding, Lalia waved him off. She knew her duty just as well as he knew his. That didn’t mean she had to like it, though.

*

Rosemary Cotton was not a hobbit who liked to believe herself to be easily frightened. In point of fact, she rather liked to believe the opposite. This wasn’t to say that she was fearless – she still couldn’t bring herself to set foot anywhere near Buckleberry Ferry and she had relations who lived in Buckland who were always asking for a visit from her– but that also wasn’t to say she was a coward.

She tried to face things when and where she could and accepted her fate with as much dignity as any gentle-hobbit could. It wasn’t always easy, of course. After the disaster of her first review, where she’d managed to spill a bowl of punch down the robes of at least two Elves and nearly maim a Man for life with his own dagger (she honestly hadn’t realized the wretched thing would be so sharp), she was surprised she had any dignity left. Not that it really mattered – she had no interest in ever leaving the Shire and couldn’t imagine anyone – Man, Elf, or Dwarf – who could tempt her away from it.

Even so, just looking at the red and black tartan currently sitting on her sewing desk made something in her stomach tighten. It wasn’t exactly fear – her first review and subsequent embarrassing journey home had dispelled her of any fear in _that_ direction – but rather apprehension. She had seen the looks on her fellow hobbits’ faces when the Thain had announced that the Dwarves of _Ered Luin_ and _Erebor_ had asked for a review period.

Shock was the only word for it. After all, the Dwarves of the _Iron Hills_ had always asked for a review period and were quite notorious for finding hobbit-spouses among their people, but _Ered Luin_ and _Erebor_...

That was a different matter altogether. One that had set excited whispers and gossip spreading through the Gathering Hall like wild fire. Never before had the Dwarves of those two mountains asked for a review and it had been assumed they never would.

That they had now, with very specific instructions and requests on how many hobbits were to come, how they were to get there, and just how long they’d stay…

It defied explanation. Especially in light of the tartans they’d sent along, pointed gifts to the hobbits who would soon join them in their halls. Though…

Hand lifting to run along the surprisingly soft fabric of her tartan, she couldn’t help but wonder why her cousin Bilbo had been given a different tartan than her own; a different one from everyone else’s, it seemed. Whereas hers and several others were a brilliant red and black or lovely green and gold, Bilbo’s had been a royal blue and glimmering silver –the only one of its kind at this Gathering, though she doubted Bilbo had noticed, what with how very angry she’d been.

Rosemary had noticed, though. She had noticed and she had wondered, especially with the way the Thain had seemed almost reluctant to give it to her. As if he knew something the rest of them didn’t…

Head shaking, a few stray tendrils of curl slipping from her messily tied locks, she left the thought alone. It would do her no good to speculate and, anyway, she doubted very much it meant anything. After all, everyone in the Shire knew that, despite being two years past her majority, this was Bilbo’s first Gathering since her mother’s passing and the Thain was likely reluctant to give it to her, if only because it’s individuality would likely single her out.

Which, unfortunately, it had if Lobelia Bracegirdle’s nasty comments had been anything to go by. Rosemary had never understood that particular hobbit-lass’s animosity towards her cousin. Though it was widely known that Lobelia coveted the state and grandeur of the Baggins’ grand Bag-End, it hardly seemed enough for her to be quite as nasty as she was to Bilbo.

Rosemary winced just thinking about the way her cousin had cut her hair after Lobelia quite loudly and humiliatingly called it a rat’s nest. It hadn’t been – Bilbo’s hair had been a bit wild, true, but hardly any worse than anyone else’s who spent most of their days out-of-doors. That she had cut it, very nearly to the tops of her shoulders, because of something that Lobelia, of all hobbits, had said was – well, no wonder she’d been in a bad mood at the Gathering.

Once again shaking her head, Rosemary sighed, hand dropping back down to her side as she left the tartan and her sewing desk alone. She had other things to do in her smial before the end of the evening and if she had any hope of accomplishing them, she’d better stop dawdling and get to them now. After all, she and the rest of the hobbits left for _Erebor_ in only a fortnight and she’d be soused with Buckland brandy before she allowed her brothers to take over the washing before then.

She never could get her gardening dress back to its original color thanks to those two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From what I've been able to gather research-wise, Lalia was a pretty fierce hobbit who ruled her house with an iron fist once her husband died. I like to imagine that she was a little bit nicer before his death, however, and her fierceness came out of what she believed was necessity. Her death, however, was - questionable, shall we say - and you can take from that what you will.
> 
> The idea behind the [blueberry crumble](http://www.foodnetwork.com/recipes/blueberry-crumble-recipe.html) being sent as a gesture of anger on Bilbo's part came from the simple fact that hobbits like food and it made sense to me they would use it to send a message. The fact that the crumble wasn't scorched to ash before being sent was just another way of showcasing just how angry Bilbo was for being forced to attend the Gathering. 
> 
> I've also tied Ered Luin and Erebor in a very distinct way, with the Iron Hills being more separate. There's a reason for this that I won't share now but it's definitely for a reason. Also, by the way, for those who might not know, Durin family colors are blue and silver.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forgive the delay on this chapter. I had intended to get it up sooner but real life and unexpected visitors left me with little time to do anything other than plot and plan. Fair warning, though, the next chapter will be delayed as well because I'll be out of town from the 10th through the 16th. We'll be back to Bilbo's point-of-view, though, so that's something to look forward to!
> 
> Many thanks to everyone who has commented, given kudos, or generally just cheered me on. It means a lot and I promise I'll try my best to reply to everyone as I'm able. :)

It was in the battered remains of his hooded cloak that Gandalf the Grey had to admit, if only to himself – for he was alone and it was a wizards’ prerogative to speak only to the most sensible of company – that he had slightly miscalculated. Not horribly – or, perhaps, horribly; it was so hard to tell when one was battered, bruised, and soaked to the bone whether one has made a smart decision or a decidedly poor one. Going by the singed brim of his hat alone, he would say he’d made a poor one; there really had been no reason why he’d had to travel the steep and sheer passages of _Caradhras_.

Orc-infested and deadly, most travelers knew not to traverse its byways and Gandalf was no different. He had planned, in as much as he ever did, to avoid _Redhorn Pass,_ the narrow and dangerous passage that connected _Rhovanion_ and _Eriador,_ and instead journey west from _Mirkwood_ , following the natural border the mountains made until he reached well-known and well-traveled roadways. It would be a long trip – the journey _back_ to something was always so much longer than the journey _to_ it – but it would be worth it.

At least, it would have been, had he not allowed his own damnable curiosity to get the better of him. Which it had. Unfortunately.

Weathered hand lifting to pat half-heartedly against his robes, Gandalf sighed, bruised fingers catching clumsily against his cloak as he pulled from the depths of his pockets a pipe, a bag of pipe-weed, and a match. They were all a bit battered from the journey, scuffs and hairline scratches marring the beautiful wood surface of his pipe, but no less serviceable and he wasted no time filling the bowl and lighting it. Almost immediately, the smell of Southern Star permeated the air, dulling some few aches and pains that he hadn’t quite been able to take care of in his haste to be free from the mountains perilous paths.

It hadn’t been easy to do, getting himself free of the mountain in such haste. Named _the_ _Cruel_ by the Dwarves, its reputation for being merciless to even the most well prepared travelers was well founded. At least, it was in Gandalf’s eyes.

He hadn’t expected, when he first began his ascent, to find quite so many Orcs in residence, nor for the pass to be quite so difficult to navigate. Filled with steep inclines, sheer drop offs, and scattered Orc-camps, he had barely made it halfway up before he’d been plagued by problems. The first of which had almost sent him back down the mountain, curiosity be damned, before he’d realized with a sinking gut that it would nearly double his trip and add even more time to his already long journey.

The only thing to do it had seemed was to continue forward, pressing his advantage when and where he could and fighting his way onward otherwise. It had been a trying business – rest had been hard to come by and the final fight then flight from a large and surprisingly well organized Orc pack had left him with more than a few aching injuries – but he was finally through and on his way. Only, he was behind schedule – _very_ behind schedule.

He had hoped to reach the boundary line of the Shire days ago and now, if his own mental calculations were to be trusted, it would take him nearly a week to make-up for the time he had lost while crossing the pass. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have minded the additional time on his journey – wizards tended to arrive exactly when they meant to, regardless of whatever plans others might have for them – but this time was different.

This time, he was headed to the home of a very dear, very important friend. One, who would, undoubtedly, be furious with him once she found out exactly how much of a part he’d had to play in the events that were soon going to be foisted upon her. If they hadn’t been already, that was.

Chapped lips twitching into the faintest of smiles, Gandalf puffed absently on his pipe, blue-gray eyes twinkling at the road stretched out before him. It would take some little time to get back to the Shire, to the familiar hills and dales that made up one of the most peaceful places in all of Middle-Earth. Hopefully, in that time, his dear goddaughter’s temper will have had time to cool and he would be able to make his case. Or, rather, not make his case, as he had no intention of giving the dear girl any more ammunition than he absolutely needed to.

*

In the halls of the great mountain, where the rough tongue of Khuzdul met the sweet song of stone, there was very little to be said about that state of Thorin Oakenshield’s mood. That it was sour was inevitable. That it was black was to be expected.

That it wasn’t likely to change unless she did something about it – well, that was entirely predictable.

Grip shifting around the hilt of her practice sword, Dís bore down on the irritation she felt towards her older brother, a childish curl of pique making her bump the curve of her shield accidentally on-purpose against his shoulder as she dodged past him. It wasn’t a particularly nice thing to do –though her strength would never be a match for his own, she had always made sure to time her jabs just so, maximizing their sting to utter perfection – but she was well past coddling him. He was being utterly ridiculous.

“You’re being utterly ridiculous,” she gibed, voice reedy and rough from exhaustion. They had been sparring for the better part of the mid-morning and her limbs ached with it, the jarring impact of her brother’s stubbornness making her back twinge and her stomach grumble. If she had loved him any less, she would have made Dwalin, his shield-brother, suffer this, if only to spare herself from his sour visage, but she, unfortunately, didn’t. “Stomping around our halls like a bear with a sore paw, growling at everyone like it’s _their_ fault that you’re such an idiot.”

A low irritated growl was her brother’s only reply, fierce blue eyes flashing as he feinted left then right, booted feet nearly silent as he forced her to take several quick steps back. Sighing, she parried, evading his quick strikes as best as her aching body would allow. Mahal preserve her from this stubborn fool, he really was being difficult.

“You’re going to have to accept this someday, brother,” she pointed out as they circled one another, slower now than before. Perhaps she wasn’t the only one getting tired. “Sooner rather than later, in fact. They will be here soon, you know that.”

Another low growl and she grimaced, sword and shield drooping as she dropped out of her defensive stance, shoulders screaming with the sudden change in weight. She was done with this – _done_.

“You’re acting worse than my boys when they were _dwarflings_ , Thorin, and that isn’t saying much considering how they act _now_.” Carefully, she dropped her shield onto their impromptu training ground, sword sagging until the tip rested against the floor. “Mahal knows I love you, but you must stop this. Not only for my sake but for our people’s.”

Trembling hand lifting to run over the sweaty tangles of her beard – she could hit him over the head for that alone, she sighed, dropping her sword onto the back of her shield. It thumped softly, a quiet underscore to their harsh breathing, before sliding to the floor. She toed it gently.

“You are our King, brother. Our _King_ , and our people take their cue from you and you alone. I know that you are not looking forward this; it’s not what any of us expected. _But_ ,” her tired eyes lifted to meet his own. “You and I both know that this is bigger and more complicated than either of us combined. We need to make the best of it – _I_ need _you_ to make the best of it. After all, you will not be alone in this. My boys – they will be right there with you.”

Fingers curling, she swallowed, some of her irritation bleeding out and giving way to true exhaustion. She was going to be feeling this tomorrow, if not for the rest of the week, and she still had her boys to deal with. Slumping, she groaned; that was going to be – fun.

“I’m going to bath, Thorin. I stink and I still have much to do before I leave for the Blue Mountains. No,” she said sharply, eyes narrowing at him when he opened his mouth to undoubtedly say something annoying. “Do not give me that look. We both know I must make the journey, regardless of its timing, and anyway, I won’t be gone long. I can’t leave my boys to babysit you for too long; you’re an awful influence.”

Turning sharply on her heels, she left the hall quickly; eyes catching the twin blurs that hurriedly made their way out of sight.

She sighed.

Her sons truly were as idiotic as their uncle was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before anyone gets too excited, Thorin's appearance is in no way an indication of my future pairing choices. I still haven't decided where I'm going on that front. Sorry for any hopes being dashed!
> 
> I've taken some liberties with Gandalf's relationship with Bilbo seeing as I've made her his goddaughter, however, I use the term in a very loose and unofficial sense here. He has no real meaningful rights over her, but he does have influence. Especially over her future and future happiness.
> 
> I'm drawing a lot of inspiration for Dwarvish culture from a blend of Nordic and Scottish culture. They're obviously not going to be exactly the same or follow the same practices but there's going to be some undeniable parallels. I'm doing this with purpose, one that will become more and more obvious as time goes by.


End file.
